


to boldly go

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Captured, F/M, Sex Pollen, Snarky Q, Ten Forward, fight to the death, injured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Five times Joan and Lane lived out our favorite Star Trek 'verse tropes, and one time they didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

“Let me get this straight. You stole one of my shuttlecrafts. For an _unsanctioned holiday_ on Risa. While you were supposed to be on 24-hour patrol.”

Captain Harris paced in front of the transporter bay like a lioness toying with her prey. As she spoke, she fixed every member of the derelict group with a clear gaze, as utterly calm as if they were all about to sit down to dinner.

But Commander Pryce winced at the flint in her voice. The first sign of trouble.

“Uh. Not exactly?” said the redshirt who – stupidly – spoke up first.

The Captain actually laughed, a sharp, breathless hiss. “I have eyes, Ensign. And a ship’s log. It’s all very clear.”

“Listen,” drawled the ringleader, “Captain, drop the act already. You’re not a nun. Everybody in Starfleet goes to Risa. And everybody knows you only got a command ‘cause you screwed your way to the top.”

Captain Harris held herself so motionless that the Commander was certain she’d had a stroke. It was not until he saw her hand twitch at her side, and a slight flush bloom across her face, that he realized just how furious she was.

A beat; the dreadful silence lingered. No one else said a word.

“Do you really think the three of you are irreplaceable?” She drew herself to her full height. “I could send you to the ground tomorrow _,_ listen to your gruesome deaths, transport your carcasses back to this ship, _and I could still find three more bodies to replace you in the morning._ You are not heroes. You’re not even men. You are ensigns, which means you are Klingon fodder at best, and at worst, a liability to every other person on this ship.” She punctuated all of this with a jab of her finger. “And if you got blown up tomorrow, remember you’re not doing it for me, because I won’t even remember your names.”

One of the cadets was bone-white, knees trembling as if he might faint.

“Holy shit,” muttered another, chastened.

The Captain wasted no more time.

“Get off my ship.”

She turned, slightly, and it was only once her back was to the boys that the Commander saw the flicker of exhaustion in her eyes.

“Number one.”

He stood at attention. “Ma’am.”

She did not bother to conceal her snarl as they locked gazes. “I want these ingrates gone within the hour.”

“Certainly. It would be my pleasure.”

 

**

 

Reflecting on the matter in Ten Forward, later that night, Lane allowed himself to feel a little wistful. Not over his own conduct – disrespectful pups always had to be whelped into line if possible, and booted out if not – but because he knew the ensigns’ childish taunts had hurt the Captain deeply. And he wished there were a simpler way to resolve her frustrations.

People always assumed that she had no feelings, as she ran her vessel with an iron fist, and brooked no nonsense from those under her chain of command.

But it wasn’t true. And no one else seemed to appreciate it but him.

As Joyce came by his usual table to drop off a large gin and tonic in a tall, frosted glass, she quirked him a knowing look before setting the glass onto the place opposite his.

“Any word from her Maj?”

“No.” Lane gulped down another swallow of whiskey. “Not sure when she’ll be—”

The doors hissed as they opened, and suddenly, there she was, striding into the officers’ bar as confidently as if this morning’s event had never occurred.

“Evening, captain,” Joyce offered. “How’re the little shits doing tonight?”

“Well.” Captain Harris let out a deep breath as she sat down, and drank deeply from her gin. “Academy’s losing its damn touch.”

“Dickheads.”

Lane watched the Captain try and fail to keep her mouth from twitching up as Joyce walked to another table. And after spending a few minutes in silence – Captain’s preferred way to decompress immediately after coming off the bridge – he took the opportunity to pull a small paper-wrapped package from his pocket.

“Care to guess what my brother sent over in his last box?”

She glanced down at it, seemingly disinterested, but the second she saw that the package was wrapped and secured with a bit of string, her eyes lit up with interest.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t know,” Lane demurred, hiding his mouth behind the rim of his glass. “Open it.”

The second she picked up the present, all the exhaustion disappeared from her face, and she looked every inch like a child on its name day. “But it’s so light.”

Deftly, she untied the string and ripped off the brown paper to reveal two small square containers stacked on top of each other, red and black letters gleaming bold against shiny white paper. Plus a small pack of flint sticks called _matches._

“Dear gods.” Her eyes widened. “Is this actually–?”

“Real tobacco,” Lane said with a grin, and relished the shocked noise she made; the way she covered her open mouth in surprise. “Grown in the ground, the way the old Terrans used to. Bought it off a real farmhand, or something. I’m not really sure how he got it.”

“Lewis did all that for me?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she tapped her fingers against her mouth, twice, before pulling her hand away.

“Well. Occasionally he’s good for more than a stupid letter.”

Lane did not say that he’d asked Lewis to find tobacco specifically – the _Volantis_ was always passing near Terran space, or at the very least, former Terran colonies who kept up some of the old traditions, whereas the _Tranquility_ hadn’t had real tobacco or unreplicated ground produce of any kind since entering deep space over two years ago.

But gods, the look in his Captain’s eyes right this second was worth the crate of rare books he’d had to trade away in kind. It was worth everything.

“Lane,” the Captain murmured after a second, touching the packages as gingerly as if she were afraid they would disappear. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”

A blush scalded hot up the back of Lane’s neck and into his cheeks.

“Well. You enjoy them, so. Very welcome.”

She nodded, once, and sat back in her chair, watching him with keen eyes.

“What?” Lane asked, when it appeared no question was forthcoming.

“Did you want to play chess later?” Her eyes skittered away to the window as she took a sip of her drink. “I know today was rough, but I could really use the company.”

Sometimes when the Captain talked to him this way, so soft and sweet, reluctant even to voice her own needs, Lane wanted to vault over the table and draw her into his arms. She’d put so much pressure on herself even as a young Lieutenant, and to watch her transform into a Captain – into as honorable and intelligent a leader as he’d ever met – had been a true gift.

What sometimes baffled him was that few others had spotted how much she had sacrificed to become this kind of dedicated leader. How much of herself she gave to the ship that no one gave back in return.

First, as her classmate at the Academy, then as her friend, and then finally, as her trusted confidante and second-in-command, Lane had quietly sworn to himself years ago that he would give Joan Harris anything she wanted.

Even if he didn’t know how to say any of that aloud.

“Chess would be lovely,” he said instead, and smiled when she met his eyes with a relieved expression. “But let’s finish our drinks, first.”


	2. Chapter 2

Harris rolled her eyes as they paged the Hub and heard Rizzo’s cheerful greeting.

“Yello, Commander. We engaging Typhoid Mary?”

“I am not calling it that,” she huffed, as she and Pryce exchanged an anxious look. Two days ago, they’d both fallen through a tangle of vines during the team’s away mission to Tau Ceti e, while walking along what they assumed was solid ground.

Turned out to be a steep embankment; they’d tumbled down the side and crash landed at the bottom. And after discovering that their suits weren’t compromised and they weren’t dead or injured, just bruised, they’d hauled themselves back up the cliff, finished their exploration, and headed back to the ship.

Eventually, after going through decontamination and being examined and all the rest, Harris had gotten back to business, assuming everything was all right.

And now they were here; she’d had a dizzy spell while completing some supply inventory in the Rover. And she had a feeling that something was wrong inside her. A strange, squirmy buzz ran hot under her skin. Heat flushed her cheeks and her head pounded and her mouth was as dry as a desert.

Her crew was prepared for emergencies, in a general sense at least. On the ground, they’d devoted hundreds of hours to various worst-case scenario drills, covering everything from HOW TO ENSURE A SUCCESSFUL FIRST CONTACT to WHAT TO DO IF YOUR SHIP IS NO LONGER VIABLE. They’d even drilled for cases of strange illnesses. All of which boiled down to a very simple, regimented protocol: quarantine.

Twenty-four hours. Monitor symptoms. Wait and see.

With a sigh, Harris hit the comm again. “Rizzo, start the clock.”

“Heard. Quarantine protocol engaged.”

On her right, Pryce actually laughed: a skittish, strange sound. “This a bloody genre film?”

Once activated, protocol dictated that everyone had to stay in their places. So, as of this minute, Rizzo and Olson were stuck in the Hub, Dr. Miller was confined to medical, which left Ginsberg and Chambers at the RAV. Leaving Harris in the Rover with Pryce.

What was that old game? Miss Scarlett in the drawing room with the gun?

She wanted to laugh, hard, and the fact that her usual poker face was so close to cracking in front of one of her subordinates was a testament to how odd she felt. Twitchy and anxious, as if one sudden movement would –

“Your pupils are dilated,” Pryce was peering at her as if he were seconds away from pulling out a pocket scope. “Commander?”

Joan blinked, focused her gaze. She’d been staring at him. Why? And with a start, she realized she’d touched his arm to get his attention. That was why he’d looked at her. Why he was asking questions. How many times had he tried to talk before she’d answered?

Perversely, she wanted to move her hand, slide it up to his bicep and trace the veins past the sleeve of his standard-issue t-shirt, all the way down to the wiry patch of hair under his arms. Smell him. Taste him.

Christ on a Christmas cracker.

“I may have a fever,” she said dully, and slowly removed her hand from Pryce’s arm, trying not to note how her body screamed at the loss of contact. “Sorry.”

Why had they gone into the Rover in the first place? There was nowhere to stretch out here, barely even room enough to lie on the floor. And Joan loved fucking on the floor; relished that shock of cold on her knees or her back as she rode a man to desperation. It had been over a year since anyone had looked at her that way; wanted to fuck her that way. Even her husband had stopped looking at her like that, far before she left for this mission.

Rizzo’s voice was back. “Olson and I are clear. Vitals within normal ranges.”

“Seconded,” Miller offered.

A long pause; the connection got louder, more staticky. “So there’s no thermometers here except the, uh, industrial-sized ones, but Chambers and I are still copacetic. RAV’s monitoring our vitals and everything checks out fine so far. Maybe elevated blood pressure, but, you know. Stress.”

“Thanks, Ginz.” Rizzo sounded bemused. “How you guys doing, Commander?”

Honestly, Joan had no idea how she was doing. The second the word _fuck_ flashed through her brain, some instinct inside her kicked into high gear; instead of just being turned on, aching and wet and counting down the minutes until quarantine was over and she could be alone, the throbbing inside her increased to a point where she felt like the pressure might split her open. Animalistic. Determined.

Pryce answered this time, with another careful glance in her direction. “More or less fine. Bit feverish, maybe?”

“Great, so it’s contagious. Did one of you at least keep your helmet on?”

Was she sweating? Shit, she was definitely sweating.

“Copy,” Joan said after a long pause, and locked eyes with Pryce, who just nodded tightly at the words. They’d both taken off their suits ages ago. “We’ll update you in a few hours.”

Whatever was happening was going to stay between them for a little while.

She disconnected the comm.

Next to her, Pryce swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, and then slid it up to the back of his neck. Was it her imagination, or were his fingers trembling? Was his skin damp? She wanted to press her lips to his temple; lick the salt from each freckle on his skin until her tongue flicked over his crown and she got him in her mouth, all the way down to the root; until he came so hard he saw stars and grabbed her hair and–oh–

_Fuck._

“What do we do now?” Pryce finally asked.

 

**

 

Generally, in an emergency situation, the lead person’s job was to stay calm, while the second babbled and fidgeted and slowly went out of their mind.

Joan was so sure she was going to be the first person, the port in the storm. Keeping her crew on an even keel was her job, and she had always excelled at it: first in the civilian world, then in the service, and now in space.

“You know, I had to sit down with the whole crew individually, before Mission Control made our final assignments. Final interview. You remember that, right?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, she couldn’t stop talking, a headache had clustered at the base of her skull and in her temples and her whole body shook with a need she sure as hell wouldn’t voice.

“Yeah.” Pryce prompted in a rasp. He swallowed, once; she tracked the movement of his bobbing throat with keen eyes. “Erm. I was the last.”

“Mm hm. I thought so. And Rizzo and I got along pretty quick. Like being back in my unit. Only better, because he wasn’t trying to stuff snakes in my locker or—or fucking put me on the ground in the middle of the night. Shit. Don’t read anything into that.”

Oh, god, now she was imagining Pryce as one of those morons from basic training, only instead of terrifying her, he would follow her lead. She’d play a game with him over the course of days, maybe weeks. Rub up against him at breakfast, give him a full glimpse of her breasts as she got out of those ugly concrete showers, tease him until he couldn’t–

“Olson was, uh. Wasn’t challenged in her old – post.”

“Probably helped having a, erm, female Commander.”

All Joan remembered now were flashes of her crew, first impressions. Olson’s sly smirk when she mentioned her test scores – not just good, but off the charts; the pages of handwritten questions Chambers brought that made Joan think she was being tested, but not disrespected. Miller was a little brusque, but knowledgeable and observant. While Ginsberg had teared up just talking about his old cases—both failures and successes. For all his personality quirks, she couldn’t remember encountering a nurse with his experience who didn’t treat the crew like stupid, sickly pets.

She couldn’t concentrate anymore. Her collar was damp; sweat patched around her shoulder blades and the base of her spine. Her breathing was too shallow, and her hands gripped the armrests of her seat so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Why the fuck would a plant _want_ to pollinate this way?”

Pryce turned; she noticed how he winced and clenched his fists against his thighs as he moved. “What?”

“No one else had a fever. And we were the only ones who fell. All those vines; the brambles. Who knows what we touched.”

“But we aren’t – it can’t be.”

Joan blinked at him. “Why not?”

“Cause it’s got your immune system,” Pryce said after a long pause. “But affected my, erm.” Another pause; he squeezed his eyes closed, turned his face toward the nearest panel. His voice dropped. “Sex drive.”

Joan’s mouth dropped open as a sudden flicker of rage briefly fought for dominance with the desperate clawing need inside her.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

“No.” He shuddered. “If – if you keep looking at me I’ll –”

“This goddamn bullshit has not _hijacked my immune system_ ,” Joan spat, so furious that every inch of her skin tingled. “It turned me on, okay? No – more than that – it has made me want to screw my fucking brains out! Suck and rub and _fuck_ until I’m so exhausted I can’t come anymore – can’t even keep my eyes open. That’s what I’m feeling right now. That’s what’s happening. Does that sound like immuno-compromisation to you?”

“Fuck.” Pryce’s face blazed red up to the tips of his ears, and when he squeezed his eyes closed with a moan, shifted his clenched fists toward his belt, that was when Joan realized he was trembling so hard it rattled the seat. “C—can’t hold on.”

Her head was spinning as she wet her lips.

“Do you need to touch yourself?”

So quiet it was barely a whisper.

 _Do it,_ she urged, wordless.  _Show me._

“I want you to.”

Pryce groaned out a noise that meant yes, hands scrabbling at his fly. Joan meant to look away when he opened his pants, but when she saw his cock – fat, twitchy, already dripping – her mouth dropped open, and another flush of color rushed into her cheeks. She tried to quiet her breathing, keep herself still and rigid in her chair, but even as she pretended she couldn’t hear his harsh, quick panting, or the fast friction of his hand as he jerked off, she couldn’t look away.

“Wanna fuck you in front of a mirror,” Joan heard herself say, as if from a great distance, and the noise Pryce made in response was inhuman; his strokes got faster, more desperate.

“Oh, gods.” A snarl tore from his throat; his free hand fluttered up toward his stomach. “It’s not – fuck, it’s not enough. I need – I need—”

“Tell me. I’ll help.”

“I can’t,” he groaned. “You – you’re my—”

“You have to tell me,” Joan repeated, grasping at her last shreds of control with shaking fingers. She couldn’t take advantage of a subordinate. All she could do was offer him an olive branch, a way they could safely explain themselves on paper. _My crewman needed me. I administered aid._

“Can’t. Uh. Gods, ‘m so––”

Joan stood up, slumping her shoulders as she navigated the miniscule space between the seats and the console, and put one leg over his hips. As she crawled into his lap, Lane’s eyes widened in shock, and when her fingers grasped his cock, he gasped, and thrust into her fist.

“Bloodyfucking _hell_ , ’s good.”

Joan’s mouth quirked into a smirk. “Yeah?”

“Smug freak,” he choked out. Joan loosened her grip, laughed a little when she noticed how his lids fluttered shut. “We – we c—” and why the hell was this so hot, watching him crumble in front of her eyes, “—could’ve been stuck here with anyone. Imagine me getting a wank f—from Draper or—or— _ah_ —”

“From Don?” Joan repeated, a low purr. Even picturing it made her slick, made her mouth water. Handsome, humorless Draper kneeling here in front of Lane, lust-drugged and sloppy, jerking him off, sucking him into his mouth until Lane cried out. “Would that turn you on?”

Lane made a ragged noise; she twisted her wrist.

“Hell, I’d watch that.”

His hands twitched desperately against the armrests as she sped up her movements to a punishing pace; Joan didn’t know why he was still holding himself back, but she took one palm in her free hand and guided it to her stomach, where his fingers scrabbled desperately at her waistband; he came just like that, head tipped back and fingertips pressing a pale starfish into her skin. And oh, holy shit, he was still hard.

What fresh botanical hell was this?

“‘S find out what this bloody thing is,” Lane wheezed, still out of breath as he finally met her gaze. “We could make mill–millions. Fucking hell, ’m still—”

“I know.” Joan’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted more. She couldn’t stop. “Oh. Have to get out of these clothes.”

The space between the console and his chair was cramped she could barely shuck her standard-issue pants past mid-thigh, but the second she started fumbling with the snap button, Lane flushed as red as her hair.

“You’re kidding.”

Joan looked up, fixed him with a biting glare – or the best one she could muster, given the circumstances. “I’m taking off my pants.”

“But you don’t have to – to do anything that –”

“I need to,” she said after a second, rolling the words around her tongue: a benediction. Permission. “That’s all.”

The second she said it, Lane’s hips snapped up against hers, and his hands skated down her sides as her pulse thundered in her throat and holy shit, holy shit. This was going to happen. By the time she was naked below the waist, his pupils were blown wide, and when she lowered herself into his lap, ground against him, he didn’t stop touching her, after that: crooked two fingers between them, searching, moaning her name when he felt how wet she was.

First time she’d ever heard him say it, and oh god, how she liked it.

His hands became desperate, then: tore at her t-shirt and the front clasp of her bra; she heard him muttering to himself as he yanked open the ugly white cotton with shaking fingers.

“That’s it. Taste you.”

And he buried his face between her breasts with a sob of a noise, licking and sucking and biting crooked red marks across her skin until her entire chest contracted hot and tight, until Joan pressed his head down against her nipple, shook through a wave that never crested.

“Oh, god, fuck me,” he whispered as he pulled off with a pop. “Please.”

Without a word, Joan got a hand between them, slid down onto him – relishing the shouted _oh!_ this prompted, the sudden gush of wetness between her legs as they locked together. In this moment, everything felt right; the stretch of him was pleasurable, desperate, so good. When he was finally buried to the hilt, Joan couldn’t help gasping his name, shocked, unable to do anything except feel.

She rode him so hard she thought the seat might splinter under them; Lane talked the entire time, babbled out every single thought that came into his head, unfiltered, a constant, panting whisper— _you’re_ _so wet, that soft slick cunt, oh fuck, ‘m close, ‘m so close, ‘m gonna—_

Joan changed the angle to get distance from his hot wet mouth, open against her cheek, but when she did she heard a loud, high yelp, realized it was her; yelped again at the forceful growl Lane let out after it happened. He sped up his thrusts. She wanted to tip herself back until he split her open, but she was also terrified of hitting the control panel, or worse, the comm, so she leaned forward again, wrapped her arms tight around his shoulders. Lane didn’t stop; grabbed her ass in two hands, began to suck and bite at the crook of her neck. Her hips bucked against his: merciless.

“Dreamt about this,” he hissed, the earnest truth hoarse and awful as it entered her ears, but Joan couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, just groaned:

“Shut the fuck up.”

And Lane came with a shudder and a gasp, hot and wet under her, his body so tense in her arms that a single word flashed through her brain – _implosion._ But after it was over, he kept fucking her; rolled his hips so slow Joan thought she might die, his cock still buried to the hilt.

One hand found her clit, rubbed her with the pad of his thumb, back and forth, quick and clumsy, even as she shuddered and pitched forward against him, panting, “’m okay, ‘m okay.” She came just like that, a bowstring suddenly pulled taut, but not released; all the rippling tension remained. And Lane was louder than she ever imagined – not that she’d imagined – growled thick encouragement against her skin with every thrust, and holy shit, it was not supposed to be this; it was a single moment of weakness, but instead they kept fucking and his mouth closed over her nipple again and she sobbed out a desperate noise when he worried it between his teeth.

This time, he fucked her hard and fast, each slide of him too much, and she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t breathe, was just yelping _I need, I need,_ high-pitched and hysterical till the words lodged in her throat, a thick solid lump ( _as thick as him, mouth-watering, she'd swallow him down)_ and Lane was still talking, gasped out phrase after phrase even though she couldn’t focus on what he said. She didn't want to hear what he said. But it didn’t matter if he talked at all as long as he kept fucking her. She wanted his fingers inside her, his mouth on her clit, wanted his voice to wash over her like the first time she’d heard it over the comms. She had liked him more than she’d expected. More than he knew. And now she couldn’t hold a thought in her head, like greying out during g-force, screaming toward a point at velocity, she was speeding up; she was going to crash.

Every bit of the world had become about touching him. Every part of her body needed his.

Lane’s hips stuttered, and he spilled into her again. After he finished, he was still hard—cursed out loud—and cupped her jaw in one hand before tracing a path down to her mouth. When the pads of his fingers passed across her lips, she nipped at them, sucked them over her tongue until he moaned. She wanted him to stroke those hands over her gums, flood her mouth, fuck her cross-eyed.

He maneuvered her down onto the floor instead, all elbows and knees; Joan should have felt a sharp shock as her left shin struck metal, but she didn’t—it barely registered—the only thoughts in her head were _fill me up, fuck me now, hurry._

This time, when he pushed inside, it was so good Joan wanted to scream; she just kept clenching around him as he started to thrust, spasming deep inside until her stomach squeezed tighter than ever. She was dripping wet, now, and oh god, just the obscene slap of his hips hitting hers pushed her over the edge, made her squirt all over him. “Jesus bloody Christ,” Lane groaned just above her mouth, and Joan realized she had said that out loud: _you made me squirt._

Joan fisted two hands in his hair again, yanked hard until it hurt; his neck arched back. He liked it. She held him there for a moment; Lane whimpered like a stuck pig, entire body shivering, until she finally relented and let him kiss her. As they kissed she tasted desperation on his tongue, acid and salt, and wondered if she tasted the same way. And then she spiraled up again, wound fast like a clock as she grappled at the side of the seat and the metal bit into her skin, until her hands cramped and she – and she –

  
  
**  
  


Several days later, Lane woke in sickbay on top of a metal bunk, with his entire body stiff, head pounding, throat aflame – and completely mystified as to how he got there.

Had he been flattened by a satellite? Hurt in that fall? Had Ginsberg finally snapped and bludgeoned everyone in the head with a plastic screwdriver?

Tentatively, he sat up, and winced at the familiar soreness in his back. Almost like–

Oh, god, oh, god, ohmybloodyfuckingGOD.

_Joan’s thighs around his face, her rich scent consuming his senses as he sucked and licked_

He’d fucked his Commander.

_Scrabbling against the floor as her mouth closed around him–sinfully hot and tight and–_

“Apply this steroid cream to your testes twice per day,” announced a brisk voice next to him; Lane flushed purple, swiveled left, and saw Dr. Miller standing there, impeccably coiffed in her medical uniform, with a data pad in one hand and an unmarked plastic tub in the other.

“What?”

“It will decrease the swelling.” Dr. Miller promptly deposited the offending item onto his bunk and swept away, back to one of her other patients. Which was just as well. Lane was still immersed in flashbacks so obscene they’d leave high-paid courtesans speechless.

_Kneeling, his body draped over her back, one arm around her stomach and one gripping her hip, thrusting till she_

Glancing across the sickbay, he noticed he was not the only patient in the room. His Commander sat on another bunk, also dressed in a hospital gown but with a thermometer sticking out of her mouth. Nearby, Ginsberg buzzed nervously around her station.

“Okay, great,” the young lad soothed as she handed back the thermometer, clearly annoyed with the whole process, “thanks. Temperature’s fine. No residual symptoms. But, um, mentally, was there a part of the quarantine that was maybe more stressful than the rest? If you had to pick one?”

“Having this conversation,” she answered, deadpan.

Ginsberg seemed displeased, but when the Commander looked down at the clipboard with raised eyebrows, he wrote down her answer, and did not prod her for any others.

Lane took the opportunity to shuffle over, feeling terribly awkward in his own gown, although there was no need to hide. She’d seen more than everything, after all. And when he cleared his throat, waved a bit, the glint in her eyes turned knowing.

“Ginsberg,” Lane asked quickly, “could you, erm, give us a minute?”

Thankfully, the lad didn’t protest. “Yeah, sure.”

Lane waited until Ginsberg was relatively out of earshot before he spoke again. “So. Er. You look – well, you look – well. I suppose.” He let out a shaky breath, pinched the bridge of his nose. What an utter disaster. “Shit. Sorry.”

“I woke up a few hours ago.” The Commander gave a little shrug. Lane tried not to think about how he’d mapped all the little freckles on her shoulder with his tongue, just there, achingly slow, until she’d shoved his head down to her breast and shuddered through another climax. “More time to recover.”

“Suppose so.”

Even with her seated on the edge of her bunk, studying him, Lane couldn’t stop picturing all of it: how the tiny drops of sweat had fallen down her pale, smooth skin like rainwater, how heavy her breasts were in his hands, and how soft she was inside.

Before he could speak again, Rizzo stuck his head into the medbay, waved a cheerful hello.

“Hey, Commander, good news, I think Chambers got all the vomit out of the Rover!”

Lane blinked, completely thrown, but Harris didn’t bat an eyelash, just gave Rizzo a nod.

“Perfect.”

Rizzo ambled off, whistling as he went, and it wasn’t until his tuneless song had faded that Lane dared to speak again; kept his tone even through sheer force of will.

“Vomit,” he said flatly. It was a question.

Harris’s mouth stretched into one of those closed-lip smiles that wasn’t a smile at all, and suddenly all Lane wanted to do was make her smile in earnest.

“Well, isn’t every day one has a fuck in a Rover.” He tried for casual, although his cheeks were on fire as he said it. “Suppose you’re, erm, saving the truth for the memoir. Or something.”

Normally, Harris was not a difficult person to read; she was always collected, but there was some kind of tell in the furrow of her brow or the grim set of her jaw. Today - impressively - nothing.

“Obviously,” she finally said, and flicked grit from one fingernail with an amused noise. “Host a livestream. Do tutorials.”

Lane laughed before he could help it. “Sure the ISB would adore that.”

“I’m sure.”

Her fingers curled around the lip of the table; judging by the way she was leaning forward, she was seconds away from hopping down, getting dressed, and walking out of the medbay.

“Erm. Commander?”

She still hopped off the bed, but her face stilled when she glanced back at him, oddly picturesque in her oatmeal-colored gown. “Please don’t bring rank into this.”

Each word was so careful, the way she’d spoken the day they first met. Lane hadn’t been formally introduced; he was an alternate that got budged up a spot or two due to someone else’s complete failure. And yet, the moment he’d heard her voice over the comms, so full of contradictions, crisp and soft and authoritative all at once, Lane knew instinctively that she would get the top job. For his part, he’d never wanted anyone else. Even when he’d been waffling over how his own examination would turn out, there had been no such uncertainty for her. He’d liked her without even meaning to, in the end. And it had shocked him to the core.

“All right.” He took a very deep breath. “Joan.”

One eyebrow shot up, although she did not reprimand him. “Lane.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, agonized. “Everything’s – all right between us, isn’t it?”

For a moment, the harsh angles of her face softened, and as they locked eyes, Lane swore he saw a flicker of sorrow. Was it guilt? Regret? He realized in that moment that he’d never fully know, and the uncertainty wormed its way into his gut, desperate and dark.

“Of course.”

He exhaled in relief. “Thank heavens.”

She actually smiled at his tone of voice, and every time he dreamed of her after that – so often it was impossible to count – that same fragile, lovely smile danced on her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Halfway up the rocky ridge, Joan pressed her palm to the deep gash in her side with a suppressed cry.

Looking down, she noticed that even through her dirty makeshift bandage - a thin scarf meant to tie her hair back from her face - three of her fingers still came away stained with blood and pus. 

Shit. She needed to stop walking.

Pausing, she turned to see how her companion was doing; saw him limping slowly up the incline a few feet away, mouth set in a determined line. When he saw that she was watching him, the scowl on his face dimmed slightly.

“Still all right?” she asked. It was all she could manage without wincing.

“Perfect.” Lane finally caught up to her, panting, the patchy flush on his face indicating that he was either feverish or just overheated. Joan didn’t want to inquire into that, or else he might start looking too closely at her. Even under the baking hot sun, she was starting to shiver, and her fingers and toes felt thick, almost numb. 

Bad sign. Probably infection.

They’d been ambushed on an away mission; driven into the desert by the locals before the ship could beam the entire team back up. And although they’d held their own for several days, sleeping rough and foraging for food, a sudden rockslide on the eastern ridge had eventually toppled them both, just a few miles from the next possible rendezvous point. Lane had sprained his ankle so badly even walking was painful, and Joan….well.

Joan was going to make it to the top of the ridge, so Lane could be picked up by the ship. But she didn’t have much faith about anything beyond that. With three days since the rockslide, very little food and water, and a wound that throbbed more with every passing minute, she thought she had maybe one last good day before she became completely septic.

And if that progressed to septic shock, there was probably nothing Lane could do to help her.

So, the only goal Joan wanted to achieve before that window closed was to ensure her dumb mistake didn’t cost her friend his life. She’d feel better about dying if she knew she wasn’t condemning Lane to a fate he didn’t deserve.

All she had to do was get through the next few hours.

  
  


**

  
  


“You should drink something,” Lane pointed out on their next break, his face and arms crusted white with the salt of dried sweat. “Aren’t you thirsty?”

They were maybe three-quarters of the way up, now; it had taken almost two hours to traverse today's steep, tree-lined path.

Joan, wheezing, just shook her head no, focusing on the makeshift trailhead in front of them. The thought of water was making her ill. Although that was probably just the induction. No, infection. Damn it.

“Had plenty,” she huffed, but at his skeptical look, she took the canteen from him and drank the tiniest sip she could stand, barely enough to wet her throat. She ought to ration the water so he had more once she was out of commission. “Um. Your ankle?”

He shrugged, glanced down at his toes. Joan saw the way he shifted to keep most of his weight off of the injured foot. Last time she’d seen his ankle, the day she’d wrapped it, the thing had already blown up to twice its usual size. 

“No change.”

“Should keep moving,” she warned, and stood up fast – not prepared for the sudden flare of dizziness that almost knocked her off-balance. Shit. “Before it gets worse.”

“You need rest, Joan. We’re both tired.” Lane objected; Joan fixed him with a lackluster glare in response as her vision finally steadied out. Like hell she was going make him gut through the last few miles on his own. He had no sense of self-preservation; if she fell, he’d never go to the rendezvous point. He’d die trying to drag her there on a bad leg.

“I’ll rest later.”

Wobbling forward, Joan leaned into the nearest tree trunk for support as she began to climb. Her legs screamed in protest, and the pain in her side flared up to the point where she wanted to scream, but instead, she just let out a small whimper, and kept walking. 

Get him home. Keep him safe.

A sigh behind her. “Right. Here we go.”

 

**

 

By the time the top of the ridge was in sight, Joan was lightheaded, scrabbling against the rock face on her left for support; she couldn’t go much farther. Her knees were jelly, and her balance was so bad that sometimes, she felt Lane’s hands on her hips or her arms if she listed too far right, steadying her, keeping her safe. 

Was he okay? Could she stop?

“Signal,” she finally choked out, when the path in front of them widened into a large, wide clearing: still rocky, but filled with a few trees and miles of scrub brush and plateaus. If they were going to make contact with the ship, this was probably the ideal place.

“Not yet. I’ll check again.” 

Lane pulled the still-functioning comm from his pocket. Miraculously, it hadn’t been damaged in the fall or anything that had followed.

Joan slumped back against the nearest rock face, and willed her legs to hold her up as he opened up a hailing frequency.

“Oh, thank gods!” A loud exclamation made her turn her head, glance toward Lane, who was beaming so brightly it reminded her of standing in the sun. “Lieutenant, do you read me?”

_ Loud and clear, Commander,  _ came a tinny voice.

Joan tried to smile back. Good. Ship was close. 

“Nasty sprain, but otherwise, I’m all right.” Lane glanced over. Joan couldn’t register the flicker in his face when he looked at her, although she was sure she was supposed to know what that expression meant. “Counselor Harris isn’t -- she isn’t well. Yeah. Grey pallor. Delirious. She wouldn’t drink any–”

“Lane.”

Joan could barely form his name. As he watched, puzzled, she pulled her shaking hand away from the side of her uniform. Behind her palm, her pale scarf was balled up, pressed against jagged edges of open black fabric, and underneath–

“Fucking hell,” Lane gasped, nearly dropping the comm. “Abdominal laceration -- infected. Probably from – what?” A pause; she couldn’t make out the dim response. “Yes.” Another pause; his mouth tightened. “Hurry.”

Vision swimming, Joan fell like a puppet cut from its strings, slid sideways into the dirt. Seconds later, she felt rough hands cupping her face, pressing against her brow and cheeks, then gingerly turning her onto her back, and there was Lane again.

“Sorry,” she whimpered as his face came into view, averting her eyes to the spill of violet crabgrass and red dirt under her head. “’M so sorry. Really tried to – to–”

“No, no, don’t you dare.” Lane tore at the side of her uniform, gasped again as he traced two fingers up her side. They burned hot against her clammy skin. “Dear gods, it – it’s all the way up your ribs. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Would’ve stop,” Joan coughed, tried to finish, “stopped–walking.”

Lane jerked his head up to stare at her, and as he did, a white-hot surge of pain tore through her right side; Joan bucked upright with a faint scream. 

Quickly, he pulled her against his chest, cradling her close, brushing strands of hair away from her face with two dirty fingers in a clumsy attempt at comfort. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Stay with me, all right?” Lane was talking so fast. Not like him. “We’re not walking anymore, so just hang on. Captain’ll be here in five minutes, maybe less. Don’t – don’t go to sleep. Stay awake.”

“So tired.” Joan could hardly blink her eyes open to peer at him. His face was a blur, except for the blue irises, frantically searching hers. “Just be okay.”

“What?”

“Y’have to–” she coughed again, tasted blood in the back of her throat, “need you to–”

Lane let out a shaky breath. “Don’t worry about me.”

“No, it–” she was wheezing now. “‘M s-selfish–”

“Shh.” Lane’s thumb brushed over her raw, cracked lips. “Please.”

Joan whimpered, turning her face to the side so it was buried against his chest. His heartbeat thundered against her cheek, rapid and loud, but also soothing. She had to tell him.

_ Don’t talk, love, you’ve got to hang on, oh, gods, please don’t go, I need you too much _

Two big drops of water splashed against Joan’s left temple, and she rolled over, directionless, in an attempt to see where it was coming from.

“‘S that rain?”

Even barely conscious, existing somewhere outside herself, she saw how miserable Lane was: red-faced, mouth quivering in obvious pain.

_ I am not losing you, damn it! _

Water speckled her face in huge drops.

“I love the rain,” Joan told him faintly, picturing the violent thunderstorms she’d used to watch from her window as a little girl on Rixx. Only this time, she wasn’t sprinting naked into the fields with her mother shouting for her to be careful; she was standing there with Lane, both wearing their dress uniforms - clean and neat - soaked to the bone. He was holding her hand, pulling her toward something. Away from something? Were they running? She felt like she was moving even though her head was pressed against something very solid. Maybe she was floating. Her body rocked back and forth, gently, as if she was being carried out to sea.

_ –loved you so long, imzadi. I’ve been utterly blind. And – and you aren’t selfish, could never be selfish, no matter how much you try to convince everyone otherwise, and I c – I can’t – please just – be all right. You’ve got to be all right. I’ll do anything. Oh, gods, hold on a little longer. Just a little longer. They’re almost here. Please. _

Louder, more urgent.  _ Where the hell are you?! _

Joan tried to concentrate, to put words together and ask him the most important question in the world, but she couldn’t get her brain to focus.

_ Needed you to come home,  _ she wanted to tell him, though the words wouldn’t come out right.

“Imzadi.” The words slurred together, her head drooped lower every time she spoke. “Come home.”

An animal howled in the distance, made these horrible, choked sounds as the agony in her side faded to a dull ache, and hot acid rain kept pelting her face in hot wet sheets.

_ I’m home, my love. Because I’m with you. Oh, gods, Joan, stay, look at me. Imzadi, please.  
_   
_ All right,  _ she thought simply, serene, unable to answer.  __ Okay.


	4. Chapter 4

Tied up with both hands bound by the base of her spine, sitting back-to-back against the solid bulk of her Captain, Joan couldn’t resist making a crack at their current situation.

“Well, at least we know Bellatrix Six is habitable.”

“Yes,” Captain Pryce sniffed. Joan could still visualize his over-exaggerated eyeroll even though she couldn’t see his face, “because habitability is the urgent issue here.”

“Oh, do you have a better assessment?” 

She felt him sigh as he slumped against her back, although he didn’t stay relaxed for long. The wall of guards to their left parted to reveal a blue-skinned man, who looked like an Orion on first glance; although he wasn’t green, his enormous, well-defined arms were streaked yellow and blue all the way up through his shoulders and neck. He carried a walking stick in his right hand, and eyed them like a smuggler usually eyed his next credits transfer: hungrily. Quietly. Sizing them up.

“Well,” the Captain said, a clipped, high-pitched exclamation that told Joan all she needed to know. He was antsy. “I rescind my earlier statement.”

“I’ll rescind your head if you don’t shut up.”

“Lucky our hands are tied, then. You might throw something at me.”

“Well, what the hell should I do? Read you an epic poem?”

“Be silent, both of you!” The Orion barked, and walked a few paces closer. “I am Akim, son of Q’ororth, leader of the free Kahless.”

As he moved closer, Joan realized he was carrying a flintlock musket, not a true walking stick, and a solution clicked into place. “What do you want, Akim, son of Q’ororth?”

Her mind whirred as she tried to process it. Former Klingon outpost? Certainly Klingon-influenced, judging by the ancient dialect. How long ago were the last Klingons here? Perhaps thousands of years. Before the Orion Neutrality Agreement. Even before –

“Greetings, Akim. I am Captain Lane Pryce, of the starship–ouch!”

Joan elbowed him in the kidney to get him to shut up, made her voice as forceful as possible. “This one is a warrior, Captain. Treat him as such.”

Akim came to a stop in front of Joan, smirking at her as if they shared some kind of hilarious secret. “Your mate. Such a curious creature.”

She blinked, brain shuddering to a stop as it processed his words.  _ Mate.  _ Creature.

“Hang on,” Lane said faintly. “Did he say – oh, turn me round, damn it!”

Joan let a sly smile spread across her face, and cocked her head to one side as she stared back at Akim. “Curious is one word to describe him. Particularly during heat.”

“ _ Joan!” _

Akim gave her a toothy, lecherous grin. “Laneprice appears eager.”

She arched an eyebrow; the Klingon equivalent of bursting into laughter. “Only when tied up.”

“Does he think that’s my entire name? It’s a surname. And why on earth are you _ –– _ ?”

Akim wasn’t listening. “Where do you come from, little Kahless?”

She leveled him with a clear, direct gaze. “My name is J’oanna, daughter of Abi’gHail, Mistress of the House of Hol’ow’hay.”  

Behind her, Captain Pryce had fallen silent; although he and everyone else on the ship were well aware of her Klingon father, she had never talked about it in such precise detail.

“I have never heard of that lineage."

“My mother is the first of her line. The seat passed to her after the death of my father. My blood is as yours.”

“HA! You dare to claim bloodright over a descendant of the Emperor?”

“Joan.” Lane’s voice was low, worried. “Remember we’re–”

“Besmirch my honor and you will see my daring for yourself, Akim, son of Q’ororth!”

Without warning, a blade sliced through her bonds, freeing her from Captain Pryce but keeping her hands tied behind her back. Rolling onto her back, Joan shifted her weight onto her shoulders before she sprang upright using the strength of her legs and trunk. Once standing, she began to walk, mirroring Akim’s earlier movements, circling back and forth.

As she walked, a grey-skinned being who resembled Akim stepped forward, cut the tie binding her hands, and offered her the choice between a bat’leth and a mak’leth. With a smirk, Joan took the larger three-handled weapon in one hand.

“Prime Directive,” Lane kept repeating loudly, as she and Akim squared off once more. Someone had finally turned him around to see what was happening. “Stand down, Joan, you are in no position to–”

“Are you Kahless or not?!  _ Strike me! _ ”

Joan paid no attention to Akim’s roar of frustration, just gave her opponent an exaggerated bow. “Very well, Akim, son of Q’ororth. I challenge you both for my freedom, and the freedom of my mate.”

The toothy smile the Kahless gave her was nothing short of wicked. “I accept with honor. May your enemies tremble before you.”

“Lieutenant Holloway, as your Captain, I order you to–”

Wordless, she swaggered over, bat’leth still gripped in one hand, and kissed the Captain full on the mouth, biting at his bottom lip until he groaned and jerked uselessly against his restraints. When he opened his eyes, he seemed dazed, and was unable to speak.

Joan brushed a thumb down the cleft of his chin before turning back to her opponent, and hauling her bat’leth into position. She was ready for a melee. It had been too long.

“May you die with honor,” she told Akim, as her lips curved up into a deadly smile.


	5. Chapter 5

This time, when the glitch happened again, the alien appeared on the bridge in human form, wearing an officer's uniform, grinning ear-to-ear, and holding a full paper cup in one hand.

"Coffee, Captain?"

Bloody Q. Lane swore aloud, and cast a pleading look in Number One's direction.

"Oh, god, not this again."

Before Commander Harris could answer, Q snapped his fingers, and the three of them disappeared from the bridge.


	6. Chapter 6

The low, constant hum of the radiator was the only sound in the room audible over the falling snow.

Usually, even at this time of night, there were always one or two people on the street, cars passing, or a delivery truck circling the block. But right now, warm in bed next to her husband and with the kids sleeping soundly in the next room, their little world was quiet in a way that made Joan thoughtful instead of sleepy. 

_ Wonder why people are programmed to notice things like that. Wonder if it’s different in other countries. Or on the moon. _

She let out a soft sigh, already resigned to her fate. No more sleep for a couple of hours.

Suddenly, without saying a word, she knew that Lane was also awake, and that he’d realized she was up. He shifted on his side, then rolled towards her with an amused noise.

“Hi,” she offered.

“‘Lo.” He reached out and touched her elbow under the blankets, a silent question.  _ All right? _

Joan made a face that more or less meant she was fine _.  _ “D’you think the moon is quiet like this?”

A pause. He blinked; she could barely see it in the dark.

“Weird, I know. I was just wondering if it’s very different.”

“Yeah. No idea.” Lane cleared his throat, sounded more alert now. “You getting the encyclopedia?”

“No.” And Joan laughed, a little. “Honestly, I don’t think the answer’s in there, either.”

When Lane spoke again, he seemed tickled by the fact that this, of all things, was keeping her up at night. “This because I told you about that dream?”

“I don’t think so.”

She weighed her question again.  _ Why the hell do you care about something like ambient sounds in space?  _ And to her surprise, a movie she hadn’t thought about for years popped into her head.

“A Trip To The Moon.” The comfort of understanding washed over her, and she basked in it for a few seconds. “The marines who launched the capsule. They were all played by girls.”

“Still not awake. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

Joan laughed again because the idea in her head was so utterly strange. “I’m talking about space. Exploration.”

A deep, confused frown creased his face.

“I guess I’m just wondering if - somewhere else, wherever these things happen - there’s some other woman lying in bed next to her husband, thinking about how quiet it is on that planet.”

Not exactly the truth. But close enough.

“But you said exploration.” Damn him for being so perceptive. “So at some point, this woman, or her ancestor, anyway, would’ve had to travel there.”

A beat. Joan didn’t say anything.

“Would you go up there? If you could?”

The breath she let out wasn’t quite a laugh, although she tried to keep her tone as light as possible. “I’m not sure.”

If she held the thought in her head, really weighed it -- not as some stupid publicity stunt to be plastered on TV, but as a serious counterfactual in a world where getting onto a spacecraft was as easy as passing a physical and a battery of tests – well. She had the answer, right there.

“You wouldn’t want to,” she demurred instead, knowing that as surely as breathing. Lane relished puzzles and pursuing knowledge and hair-brained adventures up to a point. But the other part of him - the risk-averse portion she occasionally hated but mostly loved - needed to come home to a familiar place each night, to people who loved and grounded him.

“No.” He moved closer. “But I like the idea of you going.”

“Turns you on,” she said wryly, only half-joking.

“Well, yes.  _ But– _ ”

She laughed - a real one, this time - and lightly shoved him backwards, so he toppled onto his back with a faux-outraged noise. “I knew it.”

“No, honestly!” Lane untangled himself and rolled closer, so his head rested against her shoulder. “I mean, I do find it exciting, but – hypothetically, if one could just waltz up to a propulsion laboratory and announce they were the perfect candidate for this kind of thing–”

Joan poked him in the side before he could finish humoring her, relishing the yelp he made.

He retaliated in kind, just like she’d expected, and for a couple of minutes, they rolled around the bed, kittenish, just trying to pin down the other person’s hands and legs as they wrestled for eventual dominance.

Lane ended up on top, for once, practically cackling with glee as he straddled Joan’s hips. With an indulgent sigh, she extracted her wrist from where it was jammed between his knee and her side, pulled a stray dark thread from the hem of his pajamas, and cast it aside, grinning.

But when she looked up at him again, he was staring at her with a very serious, intent expression, eyes flickering dimly in the dark.

“You’d be good at it, I think.”

Joan glanced to the right, just for a second. “Well, it’s not as if we’ll ever get to test that theory.”

“Don’t.” He leaned down, one hand pressing against her pillow as the other one stroked through her hair. “I’m not being funny. You could.”

The nice thing was that he actually meant it. And there were a thousand unasked questions underneath his quiet insistence that they take this bit of midnight stupidity seriously. If there was anyone who was able to honor the concept of  _ overthinking things,  _ it was her husband. Always trying to uncover some piece of logic behind uncertainty.

_ Who among us hasn’t wanted to blow up their normal life,  _ she could almost hear him asking. _ Take a new job, do something they never thought was possible?  _ Tossing around a subject like this wasn’t about her harebrained theory of space exploration so much as the thought behind it.  _ Every theorem has a postulate.  _ Things that didn’t have proof weren’t always false.

Lane was still staring at her, with the yearning of the world written across his face, and in that moment Joan wanted him so much it stole her breath. She pulled him down to her, running her palms up his arms and down his sides as they began to kiss.

“Pretend you’ve just met me,” she whispered into his ear, prickling with pleasure when he gasped at the sensation of her breath on his skin. “Like we’re the only two people out there.”

“We are,” Lane urged in a low voice, grabbing onto the idea as he sat up and pulled his shirt over his head. “And – and you’ve been so alone.”

“I’ve never seen a man before.”

His hands slowed against her skin, purposefully hesitant. “Do I excite you?”

“Yes.” Joan couldn’t hide the shiver that ran down her back as Lane unbuttoned her top, mapping her breasts in his hands as carefully as if he didn’t already know how to tear her apart. The mood between them turned electric. “Yes.”

He groaned, draped his body over hers; they fell into a frenetic rhythm.

Once they were finished: lying on her back, eyes closed, covered by the blanket with a drowsy Lane snuggled up next to her, Joan exhaled a breath, deciding to put it all out of her mind. 

After all, it was just an idea.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this mainly started because I wanted to write the end scene, and then I thought, wait, why not try to put them into a few of the classic shenanigans? And then it snowballed. :) We're all very lucky Lane didn't end up covered in tribbles.


End file.
